


Brand Management

by raisedbymoogles



Series: Robots Resist [2]
Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Current Events, Gen, M/M, resist, shameless catharsisfic, spray paint, underground resistance movement, very lightly implied Jazz/Prowl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2019-02-06 03:07:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12808287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raisedbymoogles/pseuds/raisedbymoogles
Summary: Jazz is having theworstday.





	Brand Management

**Author's Note:**

> I... was not expecting this to be a series, but here we are. Follows "A Kick in the Skid," taking place in an alternate G1 set alongside current events.

Jazz all but _minced_ into the hideout, holding his arms stiffly out from his body as though his own body disgusted him. _“Prowl,”_ he wailed.

Spike sat bolt upright, nearly dropping his phone. “What happened to you?”

“I got _tagged,_ man.” That much was obvious enough that Spike felt a little foolish even asking: Jazz’s new silver paintjob was marred with streaks of yellow. “They even got my bumper, lookit this!” He turned around, and Spike winced - slapped on Jazz’s back bumper was a sticker with a familiar jingoistic slogan.

“That’s awful,” he sympathized as Jazz turned around again, hands covering the offending sticker. “What happened, get caught in the middle of a White Assholes United rally?”

Jazz’s grimace was finally broken by a snicker, though he was clearly still upset. “Something like that. I couldn’t even transform like I would’ve before all this slag went down, I woulda blown my cover. Where’s Prowl?”

“In recharge last I checked. Do you want me to-“

“No.” And there was Prowl ducking through the old storm drain, fatigue-dim optics brightening when he fully caught sight of Jazz. “I’ll take it from here,” he pronounced, taking in the disaster of his partner’s paintjob, and Jazz’s wheeled shoulders descended in relief and gratitude.

“You’re the _best_ , Prowl,” he pronounced, and Prowl’s mouth curved in a rare, tired smile.

“Yes, well, there’s the kind of disreputable I like and then there’s _that._ ”

“Ugh, tell me about it. I had to drive all the way home like this…”

Something in Jazz’s tone told Spike he didn’t want to know what the fragmented smears of yellow paint on Jazz’s plating spelled out when he was in car mode. He picked his phone back up, poked disconsolately at it, and contemplated the unfairness of the world. Jazz had committed his whole self to preserving humanity’s freedom, and this was the thanks he got - branded by some bigot.

_Nuts to this._

Jazz and Prowl would be busy for a while - judging by the voices echoing faintly through their underground hideout, Jazz was at least enjoying the attention. Spike texted them both quickly, got a caroled “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” from Jazz in reply (followed by a muffled clang, Prowl’s contribution), and headed to one of their bolthole’s exits, his anger blooming beautifully into purpose.

_Time to cause some trouble._

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired, obviously, by that report about an intern printing MAGA in Cybertronian alphabet on Jazz's sigil. Seemingly said intern has never seen an episode of Transformers in their _life._


End file.
